


Atonement

by staredecisis



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Slow Burn, and a small dose of SCOTUS references, more catholicism than you ever expected to find in a fallout fic js
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 00:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10686270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staredecisis/pseuds/staredecisis
Summary: Hancock learns more of the Sole Survivor's life before the bombs fell and the loss she felt as a young lawyer that still haunts her. She's worried she hadn't done enough, in his eyes she's already done more than anyone else. Hancock reflects on his own deeds and what they both seem to be atoning for.





	Atonement

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing for Fallout 4 and fic in like...a long time. Expect more of my FSS Mina Sullivan in the future, probably culminating in one long fic.

He absently tosses another Mentat into his mouth. Arms fold contentedly behind his head as it clicks briefly against his teeth and Hancock leans back against the wall. It’s a good night, a quiet night. It had been initially startling, how god damn  _ silent  _ the world could get after the sun fell out here. Goodneighbour, if anything, seemed to come all the more alive at night; its citizens spilling out into the streets searching for a fix or, if they were lucky, just a good time. It’s darker out here, too. There’s no neon lights glittering against the sky, only the distant glow of Diamond City to the south and the hazy shape of that stupid airship. 

He sighs with a roll of his eyes, tugging his coat tighter around thin shoulders. Last thing the Wealth’ needed was a bunch of bigots in armor rolling in, anxious to save any smooth skin and snatch up any shiny tech that caught their interest. He’d been less than impressed and had no problem openly, almost enthusiastically, sharing his assessment with what’s his name and his little rag tag crew. Mina, however, had done her best to at least feign courtesy, even if the one who bitched at her had made her quietly seethe. He hadn’t seemed happy when she had icily corrected him that she did, in fact, know Latin and, if anything, probably knew more Latin than just about anyone in the Commonwealth at present.

He’d had to hide a grin at that, shoved his hands in his pockets and rolled back on his heels in a silent display of encouragement. She’s good for that, Mina, all cool and smooth and then suddenly pretty fuckin’  _ done. _

As if on cue, she rolls over in her sleep with a wordless mumble and it’s close enough to the fire he nearly leaps up to push her away. She sleeps so close to the damn thing he swears that hair of her’s is going to go up in flames one day. It had been a warm evening a few weeks ago, comfortable enough to forgo a blanket, and still she’d bundled up and curled up so near to the fire he’d asked if she prefer he just hold his lighter up to her face while she slept. Mina had quirked a grin at that, but there had been a distance in her eyes.  _ I don’t like sleeping cold _ , she’d shrugged and he knew instinctively that there was more to it, but it hadn’t been his place to ask. Not yet, any way, but maybe with time.

Mina mumbles again. He glances in her direction, lazily curious, and tries to make out a few words. She’s not normally a talker, though he’s heard the name  _ Nate  _ more than a few times. Hancock leans back all the more, the warm rush of the Mentats coiling in his veins. She shifts her weight now, restless, and a quick, slight sigh escapes her lips. It’s quiet enough to be endearing but it’s followed by another noise, something lower and aching.

His tongue pauses swiping over the Mentat. Jesus, is it one of  _ those  _ dreams? He grows all the more curious, tilts his head to the side and begins a checklist of just who to tease her about in the morning. Preston Garvey? Nah, the man’s kinks were reserved for settlements and more thrilling yet, the prospect of settlements. Better not be fuckin’ Danse,  _ anyone _ but that fuckwit. Hell, at least it’d better be someone like Nicky. He’d always heard women were into the vintage detective aesthetic.

The fire crackles softly and in its glow, Hancock thinks he can see her shoulders tremble. He sits up a bit. Mina murmurs something and her voice cracks against the quiet of the night. She’s still then and for a long moment, he’s certain it’s passed, but then she’s thrashing and there’s a strangled cry stuck in her throat. He moves quickly now and she’s shoving him away, fingers clawing at his coat and arms and Mina can’t breathe, hears her breath catching and halting and gasping. 

“Woah now, sister!” he interjects and wraps arms tightly around her slim frame, keeps her hands from doing any further damage. She trembles and fights like a cornered animal, equal parts panic and desperation, and Hancock tries again. “ _ Mina!  _ Hey,  _ hey now _ , you good? It’s alright, you’re ok. Shh, you’re all good, ok? All good, just a dream.” It startles him, how much strength is in her. He’s spied the lines of muscle slowly forming over the weeks since they’ve begun traveling together, since she crawled outta’ that vault, but he hadn’t expected anything like this. 

Her body reacts slowly to his words, but it reacts nonetheless. Her shoulders slump and her posture relaxes against him. Hancock tries to make a joke, eases his grip. “Well well  _ well _ , a fight like that could take down a deathclaw. You ever thought about wrestlin’ one? I know people back in Goodneighbour that would give  _ damn  _ good caps to see that.” 

She doesn’t respond and a wave of guilt rolls over him. Arms slowly retreat from around her and he gingerly brushes messied hair away from her face. “Mina, you ok?”

Her stormy eyes finally meet his and she looks hurt, no,  _ wounded.  _ Tears brim in the corner and she’s about as pale as a damn ghost normally, but there’s no color left in her sharp cheekbones. “Yeah-,” Mina rasps and he knows instantly it’s a lie. “I-,” She swallows hard, ever stoic, and attempts it again. “I’m ok. I’m sorry, Hancock, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Hancock looks at her, silently assessing. “Rest of the Commonwealth might have fallen for that, but not me. I ain’t exactly  _ most  _ people and you didn’t let the rest of the Wealth’ tag along with you. That’s the price you pay for lettin’ me tag along.” Harsh features soften. “You sure you’re ok, sister?”

She stares at him for a moment longer and he knows her gaze is searching, but for what he can’t determine. He reaches out, moves another strand of hair away from her cheek and tucks it behind her ear, and then Mina crumbles. “I’m sorry-,” She whispers, almost embarrassed, “I had a nightmare. I-,”

“You don’t need to go bein’ sorry,” He interjects and helps her readjust the thin blanket over her shoulders, “Might as well save it for people who care about those sorts of things.” 

Mina trembles again and the tears flow more freely now, leaving faint, clean paths down her face. “Jesus, Hancock, I didn’t do  _ enough. _ ” She sucks in a breath, teeth gnawing the corner of her lip. “I-, I should have done more and I didn’t! I didn’t know what to do, it didn’t seem like there was anything else to do.” 

He sits back and decides it’s best to swallow the remnants of the Mentat. A bottle of purified water is handed towards her and she accepts it. He watches her hand shake as she swallows. “You wanna’ talk about it? You don’t have to, but I’m a good listener.” Hancock offers a quirk of his lips. “Charming, handy with a shotgun and great at listening. What more could you ask for out of someone?”

He’s relieved when she casts back the shadow of a smile, some of the sheen of her terror beginning to fade, though certainly not gone altogether. “What would I do without you?” She asks and there’s humor in her voice, but Hancock swears he hears genuine appreciation. Mina sighs, runs a hand through wild hair, and swipes her tongue over her lower lip. “I-, god, I have no idea if you know of them way out here, but back before the bombs, we-,” She pauses, “ _ They  _ had these things called internment camps, you understand. They were basically prisons, but they weren’t for prisoners. Not legal ones, anyway.”

_ Ah.  _ She’s talked about her job with him before, explained just what exactly she did even if it didn’t make all that much sense to him. Civil liberties weren’t exactly frequently considered within the Commonwealth, after all. Mina had said he would have hated her before the war and he’d grinned, arguing that it seemed fairly difficult to hate her. She had smirked back then, that rare wry smirk that he would have thought hinted at flirtation if he didn’t know better.  _ No, trust me, Hancock. You would’ve hated me. People like me would’ve tossed your ass in jail. _

He nods now, snapping himself back into reality. Mina pauses to take a sip of water and he resists the urge to lean out and steady her hand. “They went against our  _ Constitution,  _ you understand, for reasons that, I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. They took the Chinese, didn’t matter if they were citizens or not, didn’t matter how long they’d been in the States, and threw them in there. Hell, most of them had never even set foot in China. Their god damn parents hadn’t either, most of the time, but they were Chinese when the war began, no longer American in the eyes of the government.”

Hancock struggles to follow along. He doesn’t want to interject, thinks he gets enough of it to reply, and Mina’s never looked more tired. She looks defeated now, shoulders set low. She sighs, continues, “The government rounded them up. Didn’t matter what they were doing, just hauled them out West and threw them behind barbed wire and gates. Said once the war was over, once the  _ threat  _ had ended, they’d be released. Here’s the thing, we did that before. Way back in an earlier war, the ugliest war the world thought we’d ever seen. We locked up the Japanese, said never again and talked about it like it was a blight on our history. It was, of course,” Her voice hardens then only to waver, “It was  _ wrong. _ But, we did it again. We closed our eyes to it and said it was necessary. Most people thought it was necessary, wasn’t exactly a popular opinion to go voicing opposition back then.” 

She holds out the water to him and he takes it silently, sips it before meeting her gaze. Hancock hopes she understands she doesn’t need to say anymore, not unless she wants to, and just when he’s about to remind her Mina continues. “My group, the one I told you about, we fought it. Fought it the whole way to the Supreme Court. That was how we decided things, back then, how we worked out laws. Took cases up before nine people and let them decide if it was right or wrong.” Hancock guesses she’s oversimplifying for his sake. “I argued against the internment camps. That was my case. I argued it.” He thinks he’s heard of those camps, one out in the NCR, and the weight of that realization hits him just as her voice cracks. “I  _ lost _ .” 

There’s tears streaming down her face now and her eyes flicker in the firelight. She sucks in a breath and her words come quick, as if the air in her lungs can’t quite catch up. “We all thought there was no way,  _ couldn’t  _ be any way they’d allow it. It-, it was so fucking  _ wrong.  _ It had already happened and we said never again and then we went and fucking did it  _ anyway _ .” His hand reaches out to steady her shoulder as she trembles. “I would see the pictures on the news and I couldn’t get them out of my head. There were kids there, whole families. They locked them up like animals and they allowed it and I didn’t do enough. I  _ lost _ .” 

Their eyes lock and he doesn’t say anything as she leans into his shoulder, allows her quietly weep into the darkened fabric of his coat. Hancock knows full well she doesn’t let people see her like this and he’s touched that she’s opening up to him, allows him a glimpse in who she was before she was the only person to survive that fucking fault, who she was before the bombs dropped and the world went to shit. He wraps an arm gently around her and he isn’t naturally the comforting type, never quite knows when, god forbid, someone starts crying. Mina, however, is different. This is trust earned, not so readily given, and he’s contented when she leans all the more into his embrace. He’s doing something  _ right _ . Something maybe even  _ good.  _

Mina, who’s been through hell and still hasn’t let it’s ugliness pollute her, deserves  _ good.  _

“It’s not your fault,” He ventures tenderly and another hand moves to smooth out her hair, flaming even against the dying embers. “People don’t... _ think  _ when things get ugly. People act on instinct and most of the time, those instincts get pretty fuckin’ ugly. Survival comes with a whole lotta’ sacrifices people are too eager to give up. Ain’t worth livin’ if you can’t live with yourself.” 

The words churn in his gut. Every inch of his marred body is testament to that. 

Mina shivers against him and he wraps his arm around her further. She isn’t crying anymore, though the pain still shivers in her voice like cracked glass. “Did you ever hear of camps out west, Hancock? Do you know what happened to them?”

Some guy outta’ the NCR had swung by Goodneighbour a few months ago, talked about seeing ghouls with detonators around their necks clawing towards barbed wire fences. Ghouls gone feral, shreds of white hanging from skeletal limbs. At the time, it had seemed a tale intended to spook the intrigued crowd at The Third Rail, maybe earn a few free drinks, but it had been just that. A small shiver crawls down his spine. So it had been true. “Haven’t heard anything,” Hancock lies, glancing down at her, “But I’ll let you know if I do or if anyone back in Goodneighbour does, how’s that?” 

She nods her appreciation silently. Her head comes to rest on his shoulder and it’s as light as the rest of her. “Thank you, John.” 

Hancock allows himself to accept that, resists the urge to roll his own name over his tongue. It feels a foreign thing, that. He’s just  _ Hancock _ now. “Here’s the thing, lady, I do not doubt even for a second that that? That  _ sucked.  _ That must have stung and ached and I get that it still does, I’m sorry it still does, but you know what? You did somethin’. Maybe you lost, and maybe you shouldn’t have had to lose at all, but you still  _ fought _ .”

Her shoulders tremble once more and he nods fervently, lets a determined edge glaze over his words. “Lots of people? Hell, most people? They’re content with what we might call the s _ tatus quo _ , see, so long as it suits em’. Doesn’t matter how miserable everybody else has it, so long as we have ourselves the tyranny of the majority, ain’t no one gonna’ lift a finger or give a damn. But you? You did, sister. Might not have won and ugly things might have kept goin’, but you fuckin’  _ fought.  _ Let me tell you,” His stomach lurches with guilt and he nearly pauses, pushes a torrent of memories from his mind, “The people who need someone to fight for them? They appreciate it. They  _ value  _ that, regardless of outcome, because it means the world to see someone stand up when no one else will.” 

Mina doesn’t say anything then and the only sound between them is the last remnants of a crackling fire. It’s not an awkward sort of silence, however, there’s a strange, nameless sort of peace to it. It’s comfortable, content, and when she finally speaks her voice is soothing. “Thank you.” She catches his gaze and there’s that tiny, faint smile again. Small but strong, much like the woman bearing it. 

“Besides,” Hancock sighs and leans back against the ruined wall, absently kicking a bit of debris away from his boot, “You seen the way Kent Connolly looks at you? Stares at you like you’re the goddamn  _ sun _ .” She flushes and he grins. “You made a difference for him, for a lotta’ people. Hell, before long the entire damn Wealth’ is gonna’ be expecting you to swoop out of nowhere and save the day. I mean,  _ General _ ,  Mister Preston  _ Garvey  _ has to be your number one fan by-,”

An elbow is cocked into his ribs. “Do  _ not  _ call me that! Jesus, I keep telling him he doesn’t have to but he doesn’t seem to get the point.” Her smile widens and Hancock doesn’t see any further tears. That’s a good sign, a sign he’s proud of. “I think I’m the first person who’s actually listened to him recite half the history of the Minutemen without walking away. He has no other choice but to like me.” 

“Give it time, he and Kent can start up their fanclub. Real legit’ thing, memorabilia and genuine Mina Sullivan autographs.”

“Fuck off, Hancock.”

They both grin now and her posture has relaxed enough that he would have thought her a different woman altogether than the one wild eyed and wounded a few minutes ago. Hancock reaches into the coat of his pocket, withdraws a small canister. “Want something to take the edge off? It’ll help you fall back asleep, I promise.” 

Mina looks at it warily, but he thinks he spies a glimmer of consideration. God knows she could use it. He holds it out.  “Just once ain’t gonna’ hurt. It’ll-,” It’ll do a lot of things, really, he knows that full well. It eases  _ aches _ , takes away the edge of painful memories that are bone deep. “It’ll help, I promise.” The corner of his mouth lifts upwards in a smirk. “Won’t let you go and do anything too crazy, sister.”

Lifting it upwards towards her mouth, he nods slowly, earnestly. “You trust me?”

Their gazes meet and she nods silently. He’s nearly startled by how quickly she takes it from him then, presses it into her mouth and breathes deeply. If Hancock suspects desperation in the motion, he doesn’t blame her. If anything, he’s impressed it’s taken her this long to give into it. “Easy now, just one huff is going to be plenty for you. Jesus, promise me you won’t tell Nick about this,” He adds quickly, “He already thinks I’m what you might consider a  _ bad influence _ .” 

“ Because you are,” Mina retorts and the Jet washes over her nearly immediately. Hancock watches the sharp edges of his face soften, eyelids growing heavy. She inhales slowly and he grins. There’s nothing quite like that first high. “Woah,” She whispers, words dripping with a lazy, silken sort of awe, “That’s-...Hancock, that’s a  _ lot _ .” 

She sways now, eyes finally closing and he gently eases her down. Her head rests against his knee and her bright hair spills over his pants, a fiery river. Mina’s still pale enough he can trace over the faint blue veins adorning her eyelids, watches her lashes flutter delicately. He wonders if that’ll fade with time, if the cloudless skies will send coloring spilling over her face. “I don’t think I can feel my fingers,” She confesses and there’s nearly a laugh in her voice. “Is that supposed to happen?” Mina readjusts and it’s clear to Hancock she’s content to stay right where she is, nestles her head against his knee.

He tucks the blanket up over her shoulders, can’t help the grin curling over his mouth. “You  _ bet. _ Told ya’ it’d help. Jet’s good for that, when you just need to relax. You ever wanna’ feel smarter than I know you already are, you gotta’ try  _ Mentats _ .” 

“Fucking  _ terrible  _ influence,” she yawns in response and she sounds so impossibly, delightfully at peace, “Nick won’t ever let me out of his sight if he finds out about this.”

“That’s exactly why you can’t tell him,” Hancock notes slyly, “Good guy, but a little uptight for my tastes sometimes, you feel me?”

Her eyes open lazily. “Can I ask you something, Hancock?” 

If he had eyebrows, he’d arch one. “Anything in the world, sister.”

“Did it hurt?”

He smirks. “When I fell from heaven? Actually, it kinda-”

“No,” Mina rolls her eyes and interjects, words barely a whisper now. She’s high as a fuckin’ kite, but practically blissful from it all. It’s a good look on her, radiant and exhausted and thoughtful. Brow furrows as she lifts her hands up so cautiously he’s  _ certain  _ she can’t feel her own fingers. “Did  _ this  _ hurt?”

Hancock freezes as her fingers rise to rest against his cheeks, thumbs pressed featherlight against his jaw. Nick had confessed to him that Mina had asked once if it was alright to bury the feral ghouls, if they  _ should.  _ They were people once, she’d argued, they didn’t ask for this, they didn’t want what happened to them. He must be the first ghoul she’s ever touched. 

He stares down at her as her fingers slide over the ruined flesh pulled taut over his bones, feels himself inhale as he waits for her to pull away in disgust and worse yet, horror. She doesn’t, however, if anything her stormy gaze grows gentler, kind. Her palms brush over his cheekbones now, curious and searching, and it’s tender enough to make his chest ache. People don’t touch him like this, even when they want him. People don’t touch him like he is a wonder, some sort of thing to be treasured. Hancock struggles to keep his eyes from fluttering shut in response, focuses on his breath to keep from leaning into her all the more. “It didn’t,” He rasps and it sounds gruffer than he intended to, but she doesn’t seem to mind, “Best high of my  _ life _ .” 

The joke sounds hollow, forced from his lips because he doesn’t know what else to say, thinks there isn’t anything to say at all. Mina seems confused by that response, opens her mouth to question him but it doesn’t seem she can piece the words together. He’s immediately grateful to the Jet for that. “Mina,” He grunts and he doesn’t mean to sound angry, but he doesn’t know how to breathe when her fingers are cradling his jaw and she’s looking up at him like he’s the most incredible thing she’s ever seen. It also occurs to him that he hates the Jet for that. “You should get some sleep.” 

Her hands retreat and he’s impossibly grateful she doesn’t look hurt, doesn’t appear insulted. Hancock sucks in a breath, steadies himself and onyx eyes blink away the remnants of the warmth of her finger tips. 

She nods wordlessly, rolls onto her side, and silently closes her eyes. He watches as her chest begins to rise and fall with a careful rhythm, feels her body relax against his leg. His breath feels nearly ragged and he reaches for the Jet himself, closes his eyes and gives into the wave that crashes over him. 

The fire’s all but dead now and the embers gleam against her hair. She looks like a statute, he determines, enough that she would look nearly marble if it were not for the bruises lighting against her jaw, the streak of dirt dotted along her neck. Hancock leans his head back, lets his eyes flutter closed. 

There’d been a church not that far from Diamond City when he was a kid, or rather, the remnants of a church. Luckily, the place hadn’t been infested with ghouls and was close enough to provide an escape when his parents were overly nagging or his brother was insufferable. He’d sneak his chems over there, make a little stash buried away in a back chamber that he was almost certain hadn’t seen anyone since the bombs fell. 

Stained glass portraits had somehow, miraculously even, survived the war and remained intact, resting high against arched windows. The colors had been fuckin’ mind-boggling after he got high, swirled and danced and melted in front of his eyes as the sun and clouds passed behind the windows. He’d never been much for religion, though he didn’t outright blame those who needed something, however stupid it was, to cling to in order to get through the day. Hell, he’d even heard of a group down south that worshipped some half broken  _ bomb _ and Hancock’s grateful they haven’t stumbled their way to Goodneighbour yet, tried to encourage devotion from citizens as like to stab them in the back as kneel down and pray. 

The portraits, however, had intrigued him. They were of saints, their names marked carefully in jet black glass hovering along their feet. They’d always looked insufferably stoic, those people, enough so he almost hated them for it. Their heads had been held high, glancing towards a sky that he’s certain holds nothing but some more radiation, and their features, even when wrought in glass, had been poignantly, fiercely determined. They had looked almost peaceful in their suffering. 

He’d found a book one time, had leaned back and tossed a few Mentats into his mouth and let them  _ encourage  _ his half assed study. Flipping through the book, he was surprised to find they had all died for decidedly lame things, miracles that he couldn’t believe anyone found particularly impressed. Maybe people back then had just been really fuckin’ _ bored _ most of the time or something. They were apparently pretty hard to kill, all these saints, requiring no small of inventiveness in order to get them to the grave. 

It had only been later, much later, when he realized that the greatest threat they posed, the one thing that made them so utterly dangerous, wasn’t their slight of hand and pronouncements and whatever weird shit they got into. Instead, they were dangerous because they offered  _ hope.  _ They were killed because they bled and breathed hope. 

One eye cracks open, the warmth of his high curling around his bones, and he looks to Mina.  _ Saint Mina _ , he thinks, who offers more and doesn’t flinch, at least not when anyone can see. Saint Mina with her head held high and her trembling hands wrapped around a rusted pistol and an ugly, crumbling world around her. Saint Mina who practically exudes hope, who touches the ghouls and tries to bury them, whose heart swells with pity and anger. 

Hancock finds both eyes are open now, black gaze trained on her. Yes,  _ Saint Mina of the Commonwealth _ , patron saint of the fucked over and forgotten. 

  
With that, he closes his eyes, leans his head back, and falls asleep hoping, (not praying, there’s no one to listen), that she finds the peace now that he knows the waking world won’t give her. 


End file.
